Kristin followed her mother through the little outer room where lay empty ale-kegs and all kinds of brewing gear. A door led from it out to a strip of ground between the back wall of the brew-house and the fence round the barley-field. A herd of pigs jostled each other, and bit and squealed as they fought over the lukewarm grains thrown out to them. Kristin shaded her eyes against the blinding midday sunlight. The mother looked at the pigs and said: “With less than eighteen reindeer we shall never win through.” “Think you we shall need so many?” said her daughter, absently. “Aye, for we must have game to serve up with the pork each day,” answered Ragnfrid. “And of wild-fowl and hare we shall scarce have more than will serve for the table in the upper hall. Remember, ’twill be well on toward two hundred people we shall have on the place—counting serving-folk and children—and the poor that have to be fed. And even should you and Erlend set forth on the fifth day, some of the guests, I trow, will stay out the week—at the least.” “You must stay here and look to the ale, Kristin,” she went on. “’Tis time for me to get dinner for your father and the reapers.” * * * * * Kristin fetched her spinning gear and sat herself down there in the back doorway. She put the distaff with the bunch of wool up under her arm-pit, but her hands, with the spindle in them, sank into her lap. Beyond the fence the ears of barley gleamed silvery and silken in the sunshine. Above the song of the river she heard now and again from the meadows on the river-island the ring of a scythe—sometimes the iron would strike upon a stone. Her father and the house-folk were hard at work on the hay-making, to get it off their hands. For there was much to get through and to make ready against her wedding. The scent of the lukewarm grains, and the rank smell of the swine—she grew qualmish again. And the midday heat made her so dizzy and faint. White and stiffly upright she sat and waited for it to pass over—she _would_ not to be sick again— Never before had she felt what now she felt. ’Twas of no avail to try to tell herself for comfort: it was not certain yet—she might be wrong——That which was between the vat and her— Eighteen reindeer. Well on toward two hundred wedding-guests—Folk would have a rare jest to laugh at when ’twas known that all this hubbub had but been about a breeding woman they had to see and get married before— Oh no. She threw her spinning from her and started up as the sickness overcame her again—Oh no, it was sure enough!—